


conversing with ghosts (all this love couldn’t keep us afloat)

by isometric



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isometric/pseuds/isometric
Summary: she visits in dreams.(a study in juxtaposition, and what it means to be eaten by grief)





	conversing with ghosts (all this love couldn’t keep us afloat)

I.

_You should not stay_ , she whispers, and he startles from his letters. The quill smatters ink all over the pages, everything he’s written so far unsalvageable. He’ll have to restart from memory, or just give up.

“Ophelia?”

_You should not stay_ , she repeats. Horatio takes a breath and turns to face her. Pale as always, her face gaunt, hair in curls as if still wet. Her eyes tired, the skin beneath them bruised purple. His heart clenches at the familiar sight.

“Ophelia, I–”

_You must go. You will not survive both of us._

“So it’s certain then? There is nothing I can do?”

_You must leave_ , she says instead, her voice still soft. _There is nothing here left for you._

There is Hamlet, he wants to say, and doesn’t. Hamlet, grief doubled, fury doubled, madness doubled. Hamlet, who forgets him sometimes, who goes to his death willingly. Hamlet accepted Laertes’ challenge like it’s all a game, carelessly disregarded the king’s attempts on his life. She is right; Hamlet won’t survive the duel, and Horatio won’t survive him. But, despite it all–

“I cannot,” he says at last.

Ophelia says nothing else, looks on at him sadly. She’s always looked sad. It’d once seemed that sorrow was never to let her go, that it had been woven into her bones. She had deserved so much more. Horatio imagines her sometimes, what she might have been, and his heart can’t bear the result.

But here, he’s reaching the end. Hamlet will not survive, and Horatio will go with him. They will reunite, the three of them like of old, Hamlet and Ophelia smiling and laughing again.

“Will you stay, till the end?”

Ophelia does not answer. Even in death, she deserves more, from him and Hamlet both. She reaches for him, cups his cheeks in her cold hands, kisses the top of his head. Horatio closes his eyes, and when he opens them, finds Hamlet shaking him awake.

Finds he can still hear her voice, her parting words. _You deserve more._

 

II.

Hamlet knows he’s asleep when he catches sight of her, lingering by the porthole. Pale as death and still so beautiful, wearing her favourite white dress, wildflowers woven into her undone hair. Her feet curiously bare.

“Ophelia,” he says, and she does not turn at the sound of his voice, does not seem to register his presence. If this be a dream, he thinks, and contents himself with watching her. She’s humming a song he’s never heard, tracing the motion of the waves on the other side of the glass. She looks at peace.

“Ophelia,” he says again, when she grows quiet.

_You should not go_ , she says, and turns to face him. Her eyes look tired, and what had been a peaceful expression from the side now appears to him as exhaustion. Her lips are blue, and there is some significance to this, but Hamlet can’t remember what. _Denmark was a prison, you said._

“I did.”

_Hamlet_ , she sighs, and a brief pang of remorse arises at the way her voice softens his name, makes it something gentle. Makes it something worth loving.

“Let me forget you, Ophelia,” he says. “I must have this revenge. My father suffers while I delay.”

_And the rest of us?_

Remorse turns to regret in his breast. He had loved her so, had known she could not defy her father. “Live on, Ophelia. Go to Laertes, to Paris, away from this prison. Leave this rot behind.” He could not take anything back, is unsure he would if given the chance. She had been naught but a pawn to him at the end, too.

_My lord, you did love us once_ , she says. Then she says nothing at all, returns to gazing at the sea. She does not hum again.

The silence drowns out colours, stills the air. The words curl into him, cling unto him, like the remnants of affection he has cast aside. And if they seem familiar, it doesn’t matter after all.

 

III.

She pleads the last time, and Hamlet does not listen. Even in sleep, he formulates, strategizes. Laertes is rusty, but muscle memory still counts for something. Claudius must be dealt with before the end of this entire farce, before the usurper can call on his guards again.

Ophelia is but a wisp. He had known that she was dead, had known when he saw her, beautiful and blue like she was underwater, because he did not think of her again after spurning her, and had never once dreamt of her since. Ophelia is dead and can do nothing. There is nothing left.

Only death awaits, death and revenge. Claudius must die, and Hamlet will surely follow. Ophelia waits beyond the veil, waits within oblivion, and Hamlet must follow. Did he not say he would be buried with her, even as it was but to goad Laertes? Did he not say he would weep, fight, tear himself? Now that he’s shed all the tears left after his father, there is only the duel, and Laertes to deal wounds to him. There is only revenge to go around, and he is a man of his word.

Grief awaits. The House of Denmark cannot survive. Hamlet must follow.

Ophelia waits. Ophelia has always been waiting, for him to return from Wittenberg, for him to be restored, for him to listen. Ophelia waits to be followed; there is nothing left but revenge.

_Do not do this_ , she begs, and Hamlet does not listen.

 

IV.

_You should not stay_ , she whispers, and he can only smile. Sweet Ophelia, pure Ophelia, who stays even when only sinners are left.

“I must,” he says, and knows he always will. Hamlet’s will binds him to Elsinore, and Fortinbras keeps him on as the sole witness. “I must,” he repeats, and thinks of Hamlet, thinks of Ophelia, their graves his grave too. Their deaths his death too. He can’t leave them behind.

_There is nothing here left for you_ , she says, and Horatio laughs, because he already knows. This empty castle, unfamiliar in its newness. All his loved ones dead, all the tragedy his fault. He should have said something, done something, stopped Hamlet from this madness. Should have brought Hamlet from his madness, should have loved more, cared more. Loved better, cared better. Where did he go wrong?

No, where did he not go wrong?

_You deserve more_ , Ophelia says, and what Horatio hears is an echo, sees her the way he had first seen her again that night before the duel. She is still pale, her eyes still tired, and now sorrow won’t ever leave her bones. _Return to Wittenberg_ , where no more friends await. _Return to your home_ , where a distant uncle reigns, has reigned since Horatio was orphaned an only child. _Leave the dead behind_ , but he has been charged with Hamlet’s will. Elsinore has sunken its roots into him, and he haunts the castle, a living ghost, gaunt and pale as she had been.

This empty castle, too big for him. Too empty to bear. He can still remember Hamlet’s voice, but not his laugh, not his smile. He can still remember when Hamlet was happy, but not what that might have looked like. In this castle, only death remains, seeped through the stone: Hamlet dead, Ophelia dead, Laertes dead, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern dead, Polonius dead, the queen and two kings dead; the House of Denmark dead.

Only him left behind.

Hamlet’s cruelty knew no bounds, even after it all, and all Horatio can do is laugh. He has no more strength for tears. _He did love us once_ , she says, as if that will ever grant Hamlet the forgiveness neither man deserves. As if it matters. All this love, and it wasn’t enough. Won’t ever be enough. Hamlet does not haunt him, and if he is still here, does not go to Ophelia. Hamlet the cruel, abandoning the both of them even after it all.

_You should not stay_ , but there is nowhere left to go. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern returned to Denmark, buried with the rest of them like Hamlet had once willed, when friendships still counted for something. When love had been enough. The only family Horatio ever knew, all of them sleeping in silent Elsinore. Only Horatio left, to remind of the tragedy.

And only Ophelia left, to remind him. “Will you stay, till the end?” he asks. Had once asked. Will ask again. He only ever feels lucid in dreams.

_Yes_ , she says, and sings in his sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark” –Marcellus, act I scene 4 line 95
> 
> “My lord, you once did love me” –Rosencrantz, act III scene 2 line 300
> 
> “If it thus be to dream, still let me sleep” –Sebastian (Twelfth Night), act IV scene 1 line 58


End file.
